greater. Nebmaatra and Tjemu fell in behind the vizier.
'… kept waiting like common courtiers! ' Sethnakhte growled to one of his sycophants. 'This is preposterous! I am vizier! I should be the one who counsels him! Who does he think — '
'School your tongue if you would remain vizier!' Nebmaatra warned. They were of comparable height, but the soldier's thick frame made him seem all the more daunting. 'The ground you tread can just as easily become your grave! Keep this in mind: should you attempt to walk the path that your friend Phanes has embarked on, then I will become your enemy. And my enemies tend to die violent deaths.'
The vizier's thin nostrils flared. He bared his teeth in an animal-like snarl. 'You are nothing to me! A peasant! For reasons known only to himself, Pharaoh favors you, but that favor will not last many more years. I will accept your lack of respect for now, but there will come a day when no one will stand between us. No one! '
'When that day comes, I'll not be hard to find! '
Sethnakhte made a subtle spitting gesture and turned away from Nebmaatra, rejoining his clique.
'Why does Pharaoh tolerate him?' Tjemu whispered.
Nebmaatra exhaled. 'His arrogance not withstanding, Sethnakhte is good at what he does. You'll find that Pharaoh has boundless patience when it comes to men of that sort.'
'Snakes, you mean?'
Nebmaatra smiled.
Pharaoh held up his hand, and every tongue was stilled; every eye turned toward him. Psammetichus mounted the royal dais. Ahmose spoke.
'I rule this land, and my word is the word of the gods, yet no man rules in a vacuum. To rule effectively, I must listen to those I trust. I have learned to trust Hasdrabal Barca's judgement. His instincts have never led him astray. But, I also trust my own instincts.
'The safety of Egypt rests in more than her military might; it rests in her people, as well. If we abandon them in times of strife, would they not abandon us in times of prosperity? Men say I am a wine-sot, that I am a philanderer, but let no man say I am fickle! Prepare the royal fleet. Muster the regiment of Amon and the Calasirian Guard. I intend to set Memphis a-right, as it should be. Psammetichus, I leave Sais in your hands.'
'Sire,' Sethnakhte said, 'In spite of the preponderance of circumstantial evidence I must protest! At the very least, do we not owe Phanes the benefit of the doubt? Send for him! Make him explain himself!'
'Protest to your heart's content, vizier, but see that my will is made known.' Pharaoh rose. 'I am going to Memphis. If Phanes is loyal, he will greet me as his king. But, if he wishes a fight, then by all the gods of the Nile, a fight he will have!'
6
The same sunlight warming the palace at Sais barely penetrated the tangle of streets at the heart of the Foreign Quarter at Memphis. An elongated square of dusty gold brought unnatural color to the faces of the dead Arcadians.
'Ah, Leon,' Phanes whispered, crouching over the assassin's corpse. 'Finally met your match.' The Greek's practiced eye swept over the slain men, noting their positions, their wounds. In his mind he recreated the carnage, willing the dead to rise again and fight, watching them die in painfully slow motion. The men who did this …
Phanes picked up Leon's sword, an antique weapon, its leaf-shaped blade fitted with a worn ivory hilt. A deep notch scored its edge. Phanes stood as Lysistratis approached. A small crowd had gathered, kept at bay by a hedge of hoplite spears.
'Whatever else happened,' Lysistratis said, his voice low, 'they accomplished their objective. Idu and his family are dead.'
'What of Menkaura?'
'No word yet. You don't think an old man did this?' The Spartan glanced down at the corpses.
'Oh no, this wasn't Menkaura's doing.'
Lysistratis frowned. 'Who, then? Idu's cronies?'
'My guess … Barca.' He tossed the notched sword to Lysistratis. 'Leon fought briefly with someone wielding a heavy iron blade, probably a scimitar. The Medjay use scimitars with blades of Carchemish iron.'
'If the Medjay are here, they made good time. How can we confirm it?'
'Assume Barca will make his presence known in due time. Have you doubled the guards and stepped up patrols?'
'I have,' the Spartan said.
One of Phanes' hoplites, his crested helmet perched on his forehead, gestured back to the perimeter. 'The merchant, strategos.'
Callisthenes crossed the street, confusion writ plainly across his face. He glanced from Lysistratis to Phanes to the corpses. His face paled. 'Merciful gods!'
'They are, indeed, my friend,' Phanes said. 'I'm sorry to rouse you this early, but I'm in need of your counsel.'
Callisthenes hovered at the fringe of the slaughter, unwilling to approach any closer. 'You should have sought my counsel before you loosed your dogs.'
Phanes, a grim smile on his lips, nodded. 'Advise me, then, Callisthenes. In honesty.'
'In honesty?' Callisthenes stroked the scarab amulet. 'I would say this bit of foolishness did your cause little good. By making martyrs of Idu and his family, you've given the rabble an ideal to aspire to. Were I in your place, I would salvage this blunder by finding a scapegoat — a business rival, a scorned lover, someone. Make arrests and show the people the truth of Greek justice.'
'You're a ruthless man, Callisthenes,' Phanes said. 'I admire that trait in my associates.'
One of the hoplite guards approached Phanes with a note in his hand, a square of papyrus. He whispered something and nodded back the way he had come. A boy stood along the perimeter, a scribe's apprentice in a stained tunic.
Phanes read the note, crumpled it in his fist.
'What is it?' Lysistratis said.
'Our confirmation, it seems. The Medjay have been spotted in the Square of Deshur. Take three squads. If they are indeed there, arrest them. If they resist, kill them.' Phanes said, grinning. 'Scapegoats.'
'What about me?' Callisthenes said.
Phanes turned. 'You and I must see a priest.'
Menkaura closed the door and walked over to the narrow window. The house where they had fled to lay nestled in a palm-grove on the southwestern edge of Memphis. A breeze fluttered through the window, carrying the scent of damp earth and barley off the open fields. Menkaura's shoulders slumped as he leaned against the window casement, his face long beyond belief. Barca handed him a crockery juglet of beer, one of two their host provided. He drank without tasting.
'How is she?' Barca said, sitting heavily on a divan. Menkaura shrugged.
'She's sleeping. Jauharah's a strong girl, for an Arabian.'
Their host, a pinch-faced old scribe Menkaura had addressed as Weni, backed out of the room and left them alone.
'He was with me at Cyrene,' Menkaura said, nodding after the scribe. 'Many of my old followers live in Memphis, in near poverty, their service to Pharaoh all but forgotten. I truly don't know how I can help you, especially now. I have funerals to oversee.'
'If you try to claim their bodies, the Greeks will kill you. It's what they are betting on,' Barca said. 'You said many of your old followers live in Memphis. Do you think you can organize them and their kinsmen into an effective irregular force?'
Menkaura rubbed his leathery skull. 'Possibly. I owe it to them to try, at least. Idu and I were not close, but
